I never promised you a June garden

My cousin Katy sent me new lipsticks!! I was really just thinking, I should go buy me a lipstick. Any time I buy a new one, I think THIS will be the color for me. THIS will be my signature color, and I'll wonder how I got along without it. I once read an article about a woman whose mother had gone the writer's whole life wearing one shade of Revlon pink lipstick, and I enjoyed that article so much I went out and looked for said shade. It was a total frosty, astronaut's wife shade, natch.

So, today maybe I will actually put on some makeup so I can try my new shades. I have, in fact, worn makeup every day, as that same cousin Katy was the one who was determined to shower and dress every day when she had tragedy, and she is my muse for this sort of thing.

I will not call her an inspiration. "You know your life's in the shitter when someone tells you you're their inspiration," she said.

And yes, I DO have a cousin named Katie and another named Katy. I never said it's be easy to read this blog. I never promised you a June garden.


At work, on Friday, they had a little surprise for us where they had us take a break and listen to music and eat cupcakes, as we'd all been working like pooches lately. It was nice. Yesterday, The Guy Who Sits Next To Me was all, "June, is that your…cupcake? In a bowl?"

"It was crumbly," I said.

"Nothing says breakup like a five-day-old cupcake in a bowl," he told me, returning to his work. He's probably right. I remember a breakup in 1992, and my friend Gertrude came to my house one evening. I'd gotten out of work at 5:00, and then in all my work clothes had laid face-down on the floor of my apartment, where she found me at, like, 7:00.

SHE WAS SO MAD. "How can you be ON THE FLOOR in your WORK clothes?" she snapped. I mean, I remember her divorce, and going over there with a sunflower at 11:00 in the morning and she was in pajamas and her eyelids were swollen to Guam. It was the WORK CLOTHES part that annoyed her. Even in all her sadness, she still woulda been organized enough to change into sweats and THEN hurled herself onto the floor.

I say that removes, like, 72% of the drama.


When I move back to my house, I will not own a TV or a couch. We both got rid of a ton of stuff, because we were convinced we'd live together forever. You know what they say: If you want to make god laugh, tell her your plans.

The point is, I think I can still get movies on my computer, right? Because I have a whole entire giant list of girl movies Ima watch and sob over like an idiot. I do not have to dress up for work, so the drama of being in a suit jacket will be missing. So far, here is my girl list of movies:

Steel Magnolias

Fried Green Tomatoes

Out of Africa

Sleepless in Seattle

The Way We Were

Coocoo for Cocoa Cock

Wait. How'd that one get in there?

At least I have a plan. I also liked what one of you said in the comments, how you had a friend who was determined to learn a new skill while she was recovering from heartache, and in the end that skill became her career. See. A well-placed hooker joke would KILL right here.

The point is, Ima finally work on making a book from this blog. Every night, after work, I will come home and peruse my blog. You all sent me, MONTHS ago, passages you liked, so I'll look at all those, which will probably bore the crap out of me because usually I read my own blog and go, How do people read this? Then every once in awhile I crack myself the hell up. I found not one but two hilarious Charles Nelson Riley neckerchief jokes once, several years apart, when I was perusing this blog. See what you have to look forward to if I make a book?

Okay, I have to go to work. We have this group meeting at 9 each morning, where we're supposed to say what our priority that day is, but everyone makes it this huge to-do list so the bosses know they're SO BUSY OH MY GOD, and at the end of it somehow I got roped into reading an inspirational quote each day. You can imagine how inspirational I am right now. Mostly now it's, like, I got yer quote, right here.

Talk at you.



Total Whine

Photo on 9-29-15 at 7.51 AM #4
The other day I was at Lowe's, because every time you move you have to go to Lowe's, it's the law. Anyway, across the street from Lowe's is this store called Total Wine, which Ned calls Totally Wine, and it's things like this that stick with you when you're trying to forget someone.

Marvin always sang, "Don't let your son go down on me" when that Elton John song came on, and now I can't think of the lyrics any other way. Also, if someone had a car hitched up to a camper, he'd always say, "Look how close that car is following that camper," and now I find myself making that same stupid joke.

So I went to Totally Wine, which I never do, but I was in the neighborhood so why not. Turns out it's a pain in the ass to go to Totally Wine on a Saturday. You had all kinds of pretentious people buying cases of wine and cases of beer, except each beer was a different kind, so to ring it up they had to take each bottle out and wave the wand over it. I was certainly not visualizing any people with beer bottles sticking out their asses or anything.

The point is, I selected two bottles, one of which bragged that it had a "wet chalk" aroma, and that was so weird I had to buy it. I haven't tried that one yet, although Ned pointed out that wet chalk is pretty much Milk of Magnesia, which, mmmmmmm!

But last night I was pouring some of the other bottle I bought, and I read the back to Ned. "It has a ripe banana finish," I told him. All that what-does-the-wine smell like bullshit pisses me off. Just sell me hard chardonnay for women who want to get drunk fast.

"Drink it as an aperitif, or with seafood, or when your heart is broken and you just want to get fucked up," I read to Ned as I put it back in the refridge.

"I just rolled the recycling out to the curb today," he told me. "There's a month worth of broken-heart drinking in there. I could barely move the thing, it was so full of beer bottles."

So we're both doing great.

IMG_5734 IMG_5742
I don't even KNOW how I'm gonna live without my pets for a month. I know the cats won't give a shit, but I feel like Edsel might commit hara-kari. He loves the CRAP out of Ned, so I'm glad he has that, at least, some Ned time. You know how I'm thinking of my year here as a year abroad? I'll think of my month away from Edsel like I went on a business trip or something. I went out to do my mission work. God help whomever gets missioned from me. The June missionary treatment. "Yes, I've taken a missionary position."

Speaking of which, do you think I'll ever have sex again? Is that over for me? My grandmother was 53 when her husband died, and that was it for her. She was done. She never dated again. What if I never date again. What if I'm just Delta Dawn, wandering town aimlessly with a flower on and no action. Actshun. I wanna live. Actshun I got so much to give. I want to give it. I want to get some too.


I'm going to change my hair to that 'do, then wonder why I'm not getting any actshun.

I beg you to watch that video. Veeeeedeo. The people in that audience are jamming OUT. Also, those twinkling lights aren't annoying at all, like the crowd at Totally Wine. Oh! And her dance during the solo! You'll be blown away.

What if I never have sex again, and all I do is watch Alicia Bridges videos for the rest of time.

How long would you give it to start dating again. I've asked a few friends, and I have gotten answers ranging from "date immediately" to "wait four years." That one was Griff. He pointed out that when you're not dating, you can watch all the sports you want. So, incentive.

I figure I should wait till the thought of NED dating doesn't make me hurl. So, like, I'll know I'm over him a little. I keep picturing spring. The other night I was dreaming that Ned and I were getting married. It was our wedding day, and apple blossoms were falling on me, just like they did in his courtyard at his old place.


Then I woke up. You can imagine how delighted I was to wake up.




God giggles at June

"I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life," Ned just said. I assured him he is not. "Who else am I gonna meet that's 50 and just as immature as me? Everyone else is grown up," he said.

He has a point there. It's probably a sign from god that we should both tap 23-year-olds next. Works for me.

I've got, I don't know, 50 boxes up in here, and every time Tallulah peers out from behind one I ask her if she's doing her boxer impression. Someone is completely over me. I move to Kayeeeee's house at the end of this week, and the dogs are staying here, but there are several times over the course of the month that Ned will be gone for work, so Ima come back and dog sit on those nights. I'm dog-sitting my own dogs. And cats.

No advice, please. This was the best plan I could come up with so stop with "This isn't advice, but you should really…"

The idea of living a whole month without pets is just weird. I've never done that before since, I think, birth. I even sneaked a pet bunny into my dorm room. Kayeee's cat died six months ago, and her next plan is to get two senior dogs, and I don't mean señor dogs or even dogs on spring break. I told her this week would be an EXCELLENT time to do that, before she goes, and then I will raise them till she returns from her trip.

She did not concur. I also suggested a puppy might be nice, and I could break it in, because look how well my own dogs turned out.

She continued to not concur. Whatever with Kayeeeee.

Anyway, what's left is I have to call the cable company and the gas company and also the water company, or maybe I'm power and Ned is gas. Oh, god, I can't remember. If I were the power company, I'd totally play that "I GOT THE POWER!" song when people are on hold.


Maybe the phone company could be Telephone Line by ELO, which is an extremely excellent song.


I'm so going as ELO guy for Halloween. All I need to do is not add gel that day. Abstain from the Nair for a week.

Maybe I didn't need to listen to Telephone Line right now. Even that awful live version. Every time I get into the car, some sad song comes on, such as Knowing Me, Knowing You or Love Hurts, and it's like God is up there getting a big kick out of himself. He has a whole sad songs playlist he's ready to wow me with and he's giggling into a napkin.

Alternatively, I could stop listening to the '70s channel on my radio. Who else here has Sirius? I got it so I could listen to Howard, paid my 13 dollars a month, but then when they said no, Howard is ADDITIONAL dollars beyond the 13, I got mad and said forget it. He's only there two days a week as it is, I already pay money to hear him and now you want MORE? Fuck my boots, Sirius radio.


Other than pack, I didn't do much this weekend. I went to my coworker Ryan's house after work Friday. He lives in a big old pretty house with The Other Copy Editor who used to work with me, and her husband. So the four of us ended up sitting around talking, and that was lovely, actually.

I got a few "Take a break! Come with me!" emails from people, when really what I could have used was help packing. I'm sure people with much worse stuff than a breakup can attest to how what you really need at times like this is someone to come dig in the trenches with you. I dunno. Maybe someone out there can tell us.

Like, if you've had a baby or you've gotten sick or someone has died or whatever. What's helpful and what's not? Because I didn't need to feel guilty that I couldn't "take a break," you know? It's a ton of work and it's been lonely, sad work.

I'd love to hear your tips on that, actually, so I can be more helpful next time one of my friends has tragedy.

When Ned has been around, we've started a horrible yet hilarious game called, "I hope the next person you date…" I think Ned started it.

"I hope the next person you date hates sex," said Ned.

"I hope the next person you date loves the song Total Eclipse of the Heart, and she bellows it to you regularly," I said.

"I hope the next person you date is Phil Collins."

"I hope the next person you date loves to see every Nicolas Sparks book that's been made into a film, over and over."

You have to admit that was a good one, on my part.

"I hope the next person you date has no fingers, and he has to touch you with nubs."

"I hope she has 15 kids–three of them toddlers."

"I hope he's uncircumcised."

I'll probably date a Jewish man next, go back to what's familiar. So not very likely on that one.

Anyway, I can't remember them all, but we had some good ones and I got a big kick out of our awfulness.

I gotta go. Every time I get ready to end my blog and get in the shower, Iris picks that moment to jump on my lap and purr, and then I feel guilty for dismantling her. I hope the next person Ned dates has small yappy dogs that nip. As if mine were so much more of a treat.

I hope she's really into Vera Bradley and has a french pedicure. I hope she sounds precisely like Rosie Perez.

June, mature and out.

My happy hour of need

The good news is, since I moved in here, my credit score has gone up 58 points. Fifty-eight points, dudes! My car is paid off, and two of my three credit cards are at zero. So that's a plus.

On the other hand, I'm a year older with nothing to show for it but four pets and some disturbing hips. Seriously. When did these things just spread out and start enjoying themselves? It's like they said, "That organ is driving me crazy. Let's go out and stretch our legs."

It's probably not helping that I haven't worked out since September 12, when all the shit hit the fan. What's today? The 24th? Good lord. That's not much time. I have lots of agony before me. Spread out before me. Like my hips.

Today is a rainy, dark kind of a day. The huge tree outside my window is just starting to change colors. IMG_5771
I'd been looking forward to watching it get all brilliant and pretty when I came in here every day to write. I will have lived here just exactly one year, to the day, when I go. I have to keep reminding myself, year abroad. It was a year abroad. You were abroad.

Like my hips.

I lived for one summer in London, when I was 25, and I lived during that time in a room, one single room, with two other women. How we didn't kill each other is a mystery. We had the only room with a balcony, and we were in the corner, so score. I know they got annoyed with me because I found at a flea market this little ankle bracelet made entirely of these teensy Indian bells, so when I got up in the morning I'd CHING down from my bunk bed and CHING down to the shower. I'd also CHING around really early a few days a week to put on running clothes then CHING! back to our room and in general they wanted to ching me into a river.

The point is, I think fondly of that room I lived in. Maybe I'll be able to think of my year in this house as a fond memory one day, and not something that rips out my innards. The good news is, it's not on my way to or from anywhere, so I won't have to pass it unless I feel particularly stalky one day. There's one stretch of busy road that if I crane my neck and get into an accident, I can see down to this house, but I plan to wear horse blinders and a dog cone when I drive down that road.

Is this Friday? Maybe I'll see if my coworkers want to go out for an ironically named happy hour. Drown your sorrows hour. My happy hour of need. Maybe we can go somewhere really dumb for happy hour and that will cheer me. Because what's more cheerful than being in a room full of people half your age and you're drunk at 5:45?

Still. Maybe I'll go. My coworkers usually cheer me. Those youthful motherfuckers. Now no one will go, because I called them youthful motherfuckers. Don't any of them have any hot dads in a midlife crisis or anything? Nothing cures your midlife crisis than a 50-year-0ld. Hot.

How long to I get to be cranky like this before you're all over me? Are you over me now? Is it like June Eeyore Gardens wrote this? I had an old boyfriend, back in like 1987, who once we hit our rough patch would call my answering machine and sigh dramatically and we called him Eeyore. My roommate Sandy and I would fall over dead laughing at his tortured messages.

"Hi. [sigh] You're not home again. [sigh] I don't, I can't even…[sigh] I guess I'll call you later."

Oh my god, we LOVED that. He eventually slept with his coworker. Sigh.

I guess I can't really blame him for the coworker thing, now that I've just spelled that relationship out on the page as I have. Oooo, I'd FORGOTTEN this part. I was in his room once and found PICTURES of her in his BED, all mussed up, and we weren't broken up yet. Oh, I was mad. He made some lame excuse and I believed him. Now I'm mad all over again. Someone's getting a terse note on Facebook today.

Okay, I'm going to work. [sigh] I guess you guys aren't home AGAIN. [sigh]



In which June starts comparing herself to Frida, which means she has really lost it

A faithful reader sent me a poem that allegedly Frida Kahlo wrote–I did not confirm that part. Here:

"leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier maché puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street."

I think Frida Kahlo broke up with and got back together with Diego Rivera 400 times. That doesn't mean I don't still love that poem.

What was so great about Diego Rivera? I mean, sure, Frida Kahlo could have sauntered on over to the waxing salon a little more often than she did, but she was sexy. Diego Rivera looks like some schlub. He looks like when your friend invites you over and her drunk uncle hits on you. Diego Rivera's that guy.


He kind of looks like someone who'd go over to the young girl's house on To Catch a Predator. "I'm just making some sweet tea."

Frida Kahlo looks exactly like the pictures she painted of herself. Which reminds me that yesterday at work, we were all taking a walk and discussing what our favorite Halloween costume had been in our childhood, and my one coworker, Thousandman, was answering. Another, younger coworker said, "Oh, cool. Are there any tintypes from that? Did your family commission a Rembrandt of it?"

See, that there is hilarious. "He painted a selfie in oil," I said, which was called a self-portrait because we weren't idiots then. I wonder what ancient Kardashians were like. I wonder if they were annoying through the annals of history, too, with all the self-portraits. The oilies.

"He saved the cave drawing of his Halloween costume," I said, before remembering that Thousandman is, in fact, younger than me. So.

I was talking with another coworker about how I could be even more pathetic right now. I told him about going to bed with all my clothes on, at 6 p.m., the other night."Did you keep your shoes on? That makes it much sadder."

I vowed to do that in the future. Then we discussed how I could go to bed at 6, then roll out in the morning and come to work that way. Or, even more dramatic, I could come to work in my robe.

My cousin had something awful happen to her, way more awful than a breakup with someone you still live with, which you have to admit is right up there on the awful scale. Anyway, she vowed to get up, get dressed and do her makeup every day, no matter what. I have always been inspired by that, so I guess I'll stop blopping now and get dressed and put on makeup that I can cry off later.


Joooon. The alone Joooon. June. Now in single servings.

Aw, nuts


Ned took this picture of Lu and me last night, while I was taking a break from packing. Whenever Ned and I start talking now, Tallulah nervously enters the room and groans. Then she walks between us and puts her paw on either one of us. I think she's worried we're gonna fight, which we haven't been, but apparently she recalls when we did. Isn't that awful? I hate that I've made my dog nervous.

I don't know why she sits with her back legs splayed like E.T., but she always has. I love that dog so much I can't even stand it. Sometimes now she even sits on my feet and looks out at Ned when he and I are talking. I know she loves him as much as she does me. He's in our pack. Of which she is the leader, who are we kidding.

Tallulah seems tough and stoic, but really she's a sensitive soul.

Speaking of sensitive souls, yesterday at work a bunch of us were on our three o'clock walk, and we were just rounding the corner to be done when I saw a little dead animal on the ground. "Oh, no!" I said, to four boys who were walking with me. "There's a dead baby animal!"

"Are you sure it's dead?" asked Austin with the funny Twitter page. He grabbed a stick and gently poked at it.

AND IT MOVED. Just like my dick.

"Oh my god!" we all chorused. A Greek chorus of editors. The poor thing was teensy, and hairless, and it was horribly, unseasonably cold yesterday. "We can't just leave it out here," said Austin, who SCOOPED IT UP WITH HIS BARE HANDS.

In unrelated news, Austin is now rabid. Don't play loud music near him.

Austin and I have never seen a tree.

I just happened to have three fur collars in my car, left over from various vintage coats I've had. I moved them here last year, and this year as I was packing I thought, When the heck am I ever gonna use these collars again, with all my crafting skills? So I had them on top of the pile of stuff I was taking to Goodwill. I mean, what are the chances?

We made him a little nest, and as soon as he got into his fur collars, he opened his mouth and wriggled around. I think he thought he was back with his mom.


We googled it and discovered he was a baby squirrel, and we named him Squirrelly Maclaine. I called a wildlife rehab, and one of the Alexes who leaves at 4:00 took him there, so he can rehab and get off drugs. Oh, I hope he lives. Poor little Squirrelly Maclaine. Normally they'd have had me put his little nest up in a tree, because his mom would likely come get him, but they said it was too cold and he had no fur. So.

One of the things they suggested was that I take him home overnight and try to put him in the tree today, and all I could think of was…

eyeriss dreem that you bring her take-owt.

All right, I'll talk to you tomorrow, from June's emporium of pain and wildlife rescue.

June goes on a date with her ex-boyfriend Ned

When I was 11, we moved into an old, pretty house with a fireplace and an upstairs, which we didn't have in our old house, and after one month exactly, my parents got divorced and we moved out. I wonder if that's why I'm so incredibly traumatized about moving out of this house. It's a lot the same, other than the managed-to-stay-a-year part. Still.

During that time, when my parents were calling it quits, our house was filled with my mom's friends, helping her pack or just visiting. That's kind of what my house has felt like this weekend. I've had people in and out of here, bringing boxes or whatever, and it's been sort of nice. And fortunately no one has seen fit to sit barefoot on the floor and strum a mandolin while singing a tune from Godspell. (Hi, mom's friends! Heart all your hippie asses!)

(I guess now's the time to say if you didn't read Saturday's post, you are lost. That is my REWARD to the 16%. They get the guff on Saturday.)

I got a ton of boxes by going on Craigslist, which is where I'm also gonna get my anonymous sex now that I'm single. I like how when you're moving, boxes become the most important thing in your life, and then a week later, you're like, How the hell can I get rid of all these damn boxes?

I drove over to the front yard of this couple, who've just moved here from Sweden. They're in an ABBA tribute band. No, no. He works for Volvo. The wife and I flattened boxes and talked about socialism, crime, breakups, philosophy. In 20 minutes, we'd pretty much told our life stories to each other. After I left it occurred to me to text her and say, Hey, we should do something sometime, but she's already texted me, so.


As I unloaded the all-Swedish boxes from the car (they can really make a box, those Swedes. Sturdy, with handles. They're great), I started talking to myself like I was the Swedish chef, just to cheer myself up.

Yorn desh box, engersh de move de floopen floo. Box box box.

Honestly, by the time I was done doing that, I'd put myself in complete giggle hysterics, and am once again reminded of my grandmother saying, "Look at that child. She don't need anyone. Just sits by herself and laughs."

Anyway, eventually Ned came in, and watched me pack, and basically hated my guts. I mean, he doesn't. He's sad. And he doesn't enjoy watching me pack. "Are you still, um, going to Ira Glass?" I asked him. Ira Glass was appearing at that old movie theater we like. We've had tickets for months.

"Yeah. I thought I'd go out to dinner first. You want to go?"

I mean, I'd been dying to see Ira Glass. And it was that or lie on my bed listening to Adele all night. So I showered and started getting ready. Ironically, I was looking through my closet and found the gray skirt I tried to wear on my first date with Ned and couldn't find. I wore it last night.


As I was getting ready, the doorbell rang, which always pleases the dogs, and Semi-Faithful Reader Peter sent me dog flowers! He sent me dog flowers on January 19, 2012, which was the day of my first date with Ned. He sent them again this time to cheer me. He didn't know he was sending me flowers on the day of my last date with Ned.

We went to a fancy restaurant, the one where Ned had the goddammit-good grouper that one time. "Here's to four years, sweetheart," said Ned, toasting me.

"Almost four years," I said, and we laughed at the old joke between us.

While we ate, we talked about what the most depressing movie is that we could rent while I still live in the house. I suggested Blue Valentine, which is a good one, but Ned said, "No. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind."

We looked at each other and got teary. A lot of the evening was looking at each other and getting teary. The other part was tasteless jokes about who we were gonna sleep with next. We both admitted that the idea of the other sleeping with a new person was utterly nauseating.

After, we walked over to the old theater, and when we saw its old marquee, we looked at each other and got teary again. "How can I ever come here again?" I asked Ned. "I've thought about that, too. You can have our old seat in the balcony," he said. So we agreed. That'd be my spot and he'd pick a new one so maybe we wouldn't see each other there. "You'll get there at one minute to the movie, anyway, so I bet I really can avoid you," I said.

Ira Glass was great. He was funny, he was Jewish, he was a delight. At some point without noticing it, Ned and I held hands, like we always do at that theater.

I've always hated people who say, "Today I'm marrying my best friend." Oh, shut up. Get friends outside the relationship, weirdo. But Ned really has become my best friend. It's gonna be so awful when something good happens, like I make up hilarious Swedish chef moving dialogue, and he's not the one I'm going to tell. And I knew we joked about sleeping with other people, but I can't imagine ever wanting to be near any other man again. I mean, Barry Gibb, sure, but that's a given.

Maybe it was torture to go on one last date with Ned. But I'm tortured anyway. In the immortal words from Eternal Sunshine:

Clementine: This is it, Joel. It's going to be gone soon.

Joel: I know.

Clementine: What do we do?

Joel: Enjoy it.

Alone again, naturally

A week ago, Ned and I broke up. I felt like his absence on here has been remarkably conspicuous, but that's probably because I just miss Ned.

We're here in this house together, for now. My tenants have till November 15 to move out, because I could not feel more guilty about kicking them out, so I gave them 60 days. In October, I'm staying at my friend Kaye's house. So we have to slog through a few weeks in this HOUSE OF PAIN till I can go. Ned's going to keep living here.

I had so much hope when we moved in a year ago. I can't believe I'm packing and moving all over again. This house was my dream house, and this life was my dream life. Now it's gone.

I love and respect Ned. I have nothing bad to say about him. And you know the rule: I know you guys are on my side, but I won't be tolerating any anti-Ned stuff in the comments. I do not regret these four years. They've been some of the happiest times of my life.

I can't believe you can love someone as much as I love Ned, and still things still didn't work out. Love does not, in fact, conquer all.

Moving from here is going to about kill me. To muddle through that part, I'm trying to think of my year here as a year abroad. Or a really elaborate way to clean my attic.


Meanwhile, I'm just trying to get through each day as best I can, which hasn't been easy. I'd like to note for the record that I have eaten almost nothing for seven days and I've lost, like, one pound. COME ON, GOD. Throw me a bone. Can a sister get one silver lining up in here?

So there it is. I asked Ned if it was okay to tell you all this, and he said he didn't care. We're mostly trying to just be in different rooms or not here at all.

I'm trying not to think of nights we sat by the fire, or on the porch listening to cicadas. I'm trying not to think of times we made out on the stairway, or looked at each other when people were over because we could not wait to be alone again. I'm trying not to think of nights we walked the dogs in this pretty neighborhood, or bought things for the house together. I'm trying not to think of the next person who will have to get a pole vault and join Ned in his new tall bed.

I hate everything.